My son doesn’t want to talk to me anymore… and I don’t know when he became a stranger to me.
I’ve only got one son—my pride and joy, my rock. He’s 30 now, and I’m 61. My whole life revolved around him. I worked myself to the bone for him, lost sleep, prayed. He’s from my first marriage. Now he’s got his own family—a wife, and recently, a long-awaited baby girl, my granddaughter. You’d think I’d be happy, especially since they live just across the street. But no… we barely speak anymore.
Before the baby came, things were different. We were close—he’d drop by often, ask for advice, or just come round for tea and a proper chat. I could tell he needed me. Now? There’s this wall between us. He’s distant, like I’ve somehow betrayed him. I can feel he’s hurt, but I’ve no idea why.
I’ve tried gently asking him—nothing. I asked his wife, but she just says, “Sort it out between yourselves.” How am I supposed to do that when he avoids me?
When he was little, he was always poorly. I carried it all alone. My second husband was kind but weak—my son never saw him as a father, and he didn’t push it. So it was just me—both mother and father. We went through it all: bad crowds, scary suspicions about drugs, reckless teenage rebellion… I had to be tough. Not out of spite, but fear. I couldn’t lose him. I wasn’t perfect, but I was the one who never gave up.
The odd thing? This all started over something tiny. I asked him to help with my laptop—I just don’t get all these updates and apps. He used to help no problem. This time? He sighed, got up, called his wife, and walked out. Didn’t even take the scones I’d baked. Just left. Silence ever since.
At first, I thought he’d cool off. But months passed… nothing. He doesn’t even tell me about work trips—I hear from neighbours. My granddaughter? Only when her mum brings her over. She’s polite but distant, won’t say more than needed. And if I ask about him? “That’s between you two.”
I’ve stopped calling—don’t want to nag. Thought maybe space would make him soppy, but no. The quieter I am, the further he goes.
The hardest part isn’t the anger or the hurt—it’s the silence. The sheer indifference. Like I don’t exist. He doesn’t visit, call, ask after my health. Didn’t even know when I was in hospital—his wife found out by chance.
I don’t get it. I’ve never argued, never meddled, never forced myself on them. Helped when asked, gave money when needed. Don’t I at least deserve a simple conversation?
I lie awake replaying every word, wondering where I went wrong. Did I miss something? Was I accidentally cruel? Or am I just… not needed anymore?
People say kids grow apart—but not like this. Not in total silence. I’m not some stranger. I’m his mum.
Now, every memory cuts like glass. I look at his childhood photos and can’t believe the happy little boy who used to climb trees now treats me like an enemy.
I don’t want much—no presents, no grand gestures. Just him. His voice. A simple “Mum, hello.”
What do I do? How do I reach him when he’s the one pulling away? And if he won’t listen… do I just accept it? But how do you live when your own child acts like you’re already gone?
